Three years ago today, one of my very best friends enjoyed his last day on earth. I'd known him since college; he struck me then as a wise man and old soul, and there seemed something almost fated about it when he persuaded me to move to San Francisco in the fall of 1996. We spent three years sharing the air in SF - sometimes out of touch over something stupid, but more often sharing the sights and smells and sounds of the city. A typical Sunday for us at our best might find us meeting in the Haight for brunch and then a walk through Golden Gate Park's flower gardens, followed by chess and conversation in a coffeehouse, then maybe dinner in Japantown or bickering over groceries and Blockbuster rentals before hanging out at his place.
We were never intimate, let me be clear about that; he was entirely het - but we had a deep connection nevertheless, both of us interested in creating positive change on grand levels yet devoted to each other's minor conversations as well. Indeed, the last time I saw him, he'd flown all the way to Seattle to watch me deliver a paper at a music conference. It's a rare person who'll do that for you. And Brandon was as rare as people get.
Kenneth Brandon Potter was only 35 when he passed away, for reasons still unsatisfactorily blurry to me ("heart failure" seems more a symptom than a cause), and I don't pretend I'm cool with his departure. It left a permanent hole in me.
But his life is something to be celebrated, not mourned, so I'll expunge my grief my own way as we enjoy a song Brandon and I both loved very much. In fact, when I reconnected with him in August 2000 after moving back to SF from a yearlong gig in SoCal, it was in a North Beach bar called Vesuvio with its own grand history, and the Waterboys' "Fisherman's Blues" just happened to be the song playing as Brandon wound up the stairs to greet me. As if the bar knew how to welcome back two devoted footsoldiers with tales to tell.
Brandon, I love ya, bud. Always will. But I'm still pissed that you never let me know where you were headed.
5 comments:
Rest in peace, Brandon.
-D*
Brando was a good friend of mine too, although I had only had the blessing of knowing him since 2005. In that short period of time, he became very dear to me. To mimic your words: "It's a rare person who'll do that [to] you." I was missing him today, which is why I found myself typing his name into google. I don't know what I expected to find (though it wouldn't have shocked me at all if somehow he'd responded. I mean I've seen this guy communicate with squirrels in GG Park!)Anyway, what I found was a nice memorial to someone whom I also loved and miss a lot. Thanks.
Thanks for this. Looking back as a close friend of Brandon's from middle school and high school years (1983-88), I do agree he did have that "old soul" aspect about him. Sorry we lost touch after college but it seems like he always found great people to befriend wherever he went. Fisherman's Blues happens to be a favorite of mine but I also recall spending many evenings with Brandon in front of his stepdad's stereo setup listening to Dire Straits' "Brothers in Arms". Thanks again.
howdy, what a shock to go google trolling for Potter and find out he passed away.
We studied Russian together in Monterey in the Army but lost touch after the earthquake and graduation in 89.
He was a good guy. Smart, an efficient thinker, and good Russian speaker.
Just wow....kind of shocking.
I want to thank you all for writing - your kind words about Brando warm my heart. I still think about him a lot and would love to know more about the person he was before and after our paths crossed, so if any of you ever feel like trading stories, drop me a line. Thanks.
Joe
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